Page 32 of Claimed By Ruin

“What I said. Gone,” she responded, her voice tight.

“That fucking scumbag had something to do with it,” I said.

Asia huffed, a soft smile on her lips. “You miss Sheriff Hayes?”

There was my Asia, able to crack a joke in the midst of all of this bullshit, but I wasn’t joking when I answered. “No, but Christopher is more dangerous.”

The amusement of moments ago disappeared, and this time when Asia looked at me, there was no doubt that she meant what she said, and that she was serious about it.

“I know.”

The resignation in her voice ripped at me like a lash. I grabbed the plastic bag out of her hand. Four oval pills, stamped with a “50.”

“These for Levi?”

“It’s a fight to get him to take them, but sometimes the pain gets so bad…”

She sighed, looked off towards the bunkhouse. Her shoulders sagged, and I ignored the way she flinched when I reached up and caressed her cheek.

She lifted her eyes to me. My breath rushed out of my lungs at how fragile she looked. Not a word I would associate with Asia, but in that moment, I saw it.

Saw the weight of everything she carried. My gut twisted; rage surged through me, but I wasn’t angry at her. How could I be? I was the one who had done this.

“You got up early. I’ll take your watch. You should go rest.”

I don’t know if Asia agreed, but she walked away without responding.

I should have let her go.

I followed her instead.

The slight hesitation in her steps told me she heard me, but she didn’t look back. She didn’t slow down, just weaved through the kitchen to the parlor and disappeared inside.

Left the door open behind her.

I stepped inside before she could change her mind, my eyes finding her in the dimness.

She rifled through her plastic tote, and I easily imagined her doing the same thing before. Before, the plastic tote would have been some frou-frou matching furniture from a builder that used sustainably sourced wood, and she wouldn’t sift through salvaged rags.

A moment’s regret for all she’d lost stilled me. But only for a moment.

Because she was here. Alive.

Mine.

A darker thought drove me to her. I settled my hand on her hip, right over the spot where Christopher had touched her. Curled my fingers to dig in slightly. Let her warmth spread through my palm, breathed in deep, filling my lungs with her scent.

“I’m fine, Jack,” she whispered, her voice at the octave that told me she was a hairbreadth away from being pissed.

“I didn’t ask.”

I squeezed her hip and then centered my hand at the back of her neck and pushed forward.

She grabbed the wooden chest in front of her and used it to steady herself. Her fingers flexed, and I knew it was unconscious. Hoped it was the tension leaving her body. Because she was afraid.

And not of Christopher.

Of me, and what I would do. What it would cost.